


Five Times Dean Lost At Pool

by Lenore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Gen, Meme, POV First Person, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:26:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the title says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Dean Lost At Pool

1\. Dude. Her boobs. And her shirt, cut down to _there_. Just—dude.

2\. Fucker cheated!

3\. Boobs.

4\. Cheated!

5\. So I'm trying to make us some money, right? So we don't have to sleep in the damned car again that night. And all Sammy has to do is lay low, maybe watch my back, in case one of these deadbeats isn't exactly philosophical about losing his paycheck. I'm doing my thing, making jokes, timing my move, and I look up, and what the hell? Sammy's sitting at the bar, nursing his one beer of the night—really knows how to live it up, that little bro of mine—deep in conversation with some squirrelly looking psycho.

Sam's gone all bright-eyed about whatever they're talking about, crinkle between his eyes that he gets when he's really interested in something, same look from his stamp collecting days and hunting for rocks and all kinds of boring ass shit he used to do when he was a kid. But the way the psycho's staring at Sam, it's like he wants to take him apart at the seams, like he's trying to figure out how he can get parts of him all over parts of Sam. Not the first time that's ever happened, but this creepy bastard's got something hard and ugly lurking beneath the lust, I can sense it.

"Your turn," the guy I'm playing against grunts at me, beefy trucker in a John Deere cap.

I line up my shot. Time to go in for the kill, but I make the mistake of looking back over my shoulder. The psycho's got his hand on Sam's arm, leaning in close, and Sam's all baby-faced and trusting, like nothing's ever threatened him before, like he couldn't tell danger from his own asshole. My pool cue stutters, hits off the mark, the ball spinning lazily into nothing.

The trucker laughs ao hard his gut shakes. "Son, let me show you how it's done."

Three shots later, he's walking off with the last of our cash, smiling like a smug son of a bitch.

I throw down my cue, pissed as all hell, and go pull Sam off the barstool. "We're out of here."

"What the fuck?" Now he's pissed, too.

"Wait for me in the car."

Of course, he hesitates. Sammy can't ever just fucking _do_ what I tell him, but there must be something at least a little convincing in my tone, because he stomps off, muttering, "asshole."

The squirrelly psycho holds up his hands, all big-eyed with faked innocence. "Hey, man, I didn't know."

I grab him by collar—button-down shirts are handy when you need to cut off a scumbag's air supply—and I tell him, "Well, _I_ know. And I ought to kill you for just _thinking_ shit like that about my brother."

I twist my wrist, and the collar tightens, and the bullshit denial the guy was about to spew comes out a raspy air-sucking noise instead. A hell of a lot more satisfying. For me, anyway.

When he's turned the right shade of blue, I push him away. "Keepin' my eye on you. Any freak-ass thing you do? I'm taking it personally."

Sam's outside, not in the car of course, because that would be too much to ask for. He pushes off from the wall when he sees me.

"Happy now?" He rolls his eyes.

"Well, the guy's still breathing, so not really."

"Jesus, Dean. We were talking about _history_."

"The fucker was a goddamned psycho, Sam! There's probably a whole bunch of other people he "talked history" with buried under the floorboards of his house."

Sam shakes his head. "I think you need a vacation. Or maybe some professional help."

I make a face at him. "Just get in the car."

When we pass the last motel on our way out of town, Sam scowls. "So, not only did you go all batshit on me, you _lost_ too?"

"Shut up, Sammy. You're not tied up in some sadist's secret funhouse. So stop your complaining."

"You're certifiable, you know that?"

There's a farm on the outskirts, good place to stow away for the night, and I park underneath some trees, off the road, so the cops won't bother us, away from the house, so we won't wake up to a dude in overalls pointing a shot gun at our heads.

"You're taking the front seat, since this is your fault," Sam announces, slamming the doors both times as he moves to the back.

"You're an ungrateful bastard, anybody ever tell you that?" I rustle around, trying to find a position where my knees don't knock against the steering wheel.

I wait until it's quiet and I think Sam's drifted off, then I slowly inch up to peer over the seat, because my instincts won't shut up and I'm not going to get any rest until I make sure, as stupid as that sounds. Sam's eyes are bright in the darkness, and I sigh, braced for mockery.

Sam's voice is surprisingly soft with understanding, "I'm not tied up in some psycho's secret funhouse, Dean."

There's no air in my lungs for just a moment, and then I tell him with a smirk, "Not yet, anyway."

The corner of Sam's mouth turns up. "Asshole."

I laugh, and when I settle back down, I figure out a way around the steering wheel , close my eyes, and sleep comes easily.  



End file.
